


Magpie

by Dogtagsandsmut



Category: NCIS
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Hoarding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Requited Love, Triggers, Unrequited Love, actually, it's - Freeform, no, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogtagsandsmut/pseuds/Dogtagsandsmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a reason no one’s ever seen the inside of Tony Dinozzo’s apartment.</p><p> </p><p>Warning! Triggers for suicide, hoarding, alcohol abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Killing Me in Our House Made of Paper

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slow building WIP. It'll eventually be 23 chapters.

 

_It's a shame you don't know what you're running from_

_Would your bones have to break and your lights turn off_

_Would it take the end of time to hear your heart's false start?_

His eyes rove around the room, taking in every detail with a quiet, resolved desperation. It’s hard on the eyes to do so, as every inch of the room is sensory overload. Color, texture, patterns. He can’t help but not look. His possessions tower over him.

 

_Nearly four hundred pairs of shoes lining every inch of floorspace not covered with piles of other stuff. Clothing, folded into piles higher than most full-grown men. Luggage sets, all stacked, all filled to the brim. Multiple televisions along the wall, none of them functioning. Bottles upon bottles of haircare products, cologne and aftershave with only a pump or two left in them. Twelve alarm clocks stacked upon the beside tables. Four CD players, two record players, a set of speaker towers._

 

There is no place to sit. There is no place to put anything that wouldn’t already be on top of something else. He’s perfected the art of stacking, because for decades his apartment has been a gigantic Tetris board. But unlike the game, once the row is filled, it doesn’t disappear.

 

_Gun parts and cleaning tools. Ammo. NCIS equipment, gear, bug out bags. Crates of papers, stacks of letters, lengths of rope, MREs. Multiple gaming systems of various generations along with many unopened games, several unusable cell phones, six laptops, only one of them functioning. Blankets, sheets, bedding. Pillows that are unusable and take up too much space. Buckets, containers, baskets, books, stacks of papers, and binders, and accordion files filled to the brim with papers. Maps and unsolved case notes._

 

He feels like he is dying from this. He thinks about it sometimes. What it would be like to die. What would come after, for him. That part is hard to imagine. He thinks about what would come after for those left behind, and that part he can envisionclearly. It’d take days to find his body. His coworkers would probably find him before the smell got bad enough. Unless there was a three-day weekend. Or any kind of extended vacation. Maybe he’d be dead from a bullet of his own gun, but he doubted that. He likes to play Russian Roulette and fantasize, but he doesn’t want to kill himself. No, more likely is a fire that gets out of control before he can do anything about it. In this deathtrap, his entire life would go up in flames within minutes, and with the whole apartment full, he’d not be able to get out quickly enough.

 

_Organizers and hangers filled with ties, hats, watches, some working, some not, and tie clips and cuff links, rings and cuffs and chains and other shiny treasures. These he loved the most--polishing the collection took hours but he still made time for it when it was necessary. Trash, kept triple-bagged and out of the way in the spare room. Movies and movies and movies and movies, both DVD and VHS. More cups and plates and bowls and flatware than a bachelor should ever need. Cat food and dog food, and bowls, even though he’d never owned pets. Sometimes people would give him things, which was the worst because he could never get rid of them._

 

He’s attempted to throw things away before. It gives him the shivers to try. The more successful he is, the more panicked he grows. The only thing he’s able to get rid of on a regular basis is food trash, and even that he has difficulty with. Everything that can be recycled, _must_  be recycled. Everything compostable is collected and given to a local Co-Op for garden fertilizer. Only then does the rest get tossed. But the last time he was successful in throwing away something that wasn’t the gristle from last night’s steak were the clothes he was wearing when Ari shot Kate, and that, he burned in a trashcan. He still has the ashes.

 

_Books, books books books books. Training manuals. Survivalist hand books. Self-help guides. More than a few books on obsessive-compulsive disorders and hoarding and shopaholics. Yearbooks. Fiction novels, classic and new. Graphic novels, satires, textbooks, reference manuals. The entire Webster-Merriam collection, as well as several Chicago and MLA style guides. An astrological tracking book. Religious texts. Atheist texts. Encyclopedia collections. All of the Hardy Boys, and every single Goosebumps._

 

It’s been years since someone has come into his apartment. None of his coworkers have ever seen it. He only sleeps with women that will let him fuck them at their house or in hotel rooms. Every time his friends invite themselves over, he distracts them with song and dance, and directs their attention towards other ideas. Tony tries to shop like a normal person, bringing in what he needs to live, as well as the season’s latest fashions and movies. The problem is that once it comes in, it never goes out,even if it’s in good enough condition to sell or trade. He’s perpetually surrounded by 30 years of clutter in the various styles of the time, and organizing it all is an impossible task.

 

_Magazines. His entire apartment is a gigantic fire hazard. He has over six thousand Playboys, and full collections of a variety of skin mags. He’s got gun mags, and car mags, and Entertainment Weekly and People and Time. He’s got bills stacked up everywhere, but he set up direct withdrawal years ago so he doesn’t even open them anymore. There’s also another stack of letters that sit unopened--ones from an Anthony Dinozzo Sr. He’ll burn those before he’ll read them._

  
Even his bed is filled, aside from a small sliver that he curls up on to sleep every night. It’s currently that sliver he sits on now, thumb idly flicking over the barrel of his Colt Revolver. The weight of it is comforting. He puts it up to his head, and with a cocky grin that’s more mask, practiced, than natural, pulls the trigger. The hammer of the gun comes down, making a hollow sound against his temple. It’s unloaded. He always keeps this particular gun unloaded, though the bullets are somewhere, buried under the weight of his possessions like everything else. He stares at the ceiling, trying to peer through it, trying to block the rest out, but Anthony Dinozzo does not have X-Ray vision--he has a mental disorder that keeps him emotionally and physically isolated, and crushingly alone in his personal life. He is 38 years old and his job and this mess are the only things to show for his life. So he maintains the facade, a consummate actor, and does his best to be the best at work, and he comes home to pregnant, empty fullness, and sits on his sliver of a bed, playing Russian Roulette with an empty gun.


	2. Every Time You Go

First Lieutenant Brandice was found with the gun in his hand and a suicide note in his pocket. There wasn’t even a real reason for the Major Case Response Team to be on the scene, but the First Lieutenant's father was a decorated war hero with friends in high places, and when those friends came‘a calling, Gibbs and his team went running.

 

Anthony Dinozzo was busy snapping away pictures of the crime scene. He slapped his hand at a bug on the back of the neck and wished for the thousandth time that people would stop killing themselves in open fields.Gibbs stood with Ducky and the body, trying to track down a time of death. He paused a moment, taking in his boss’s svelte form admiringly and without observation before feeling a poke in the ribs. He turned to the offender, rubbing the spot absently as he glared.

 

“Staring into the sun again, Tony?” Ziva snarked. Tony smirked back at her.

 

“Something like that.”

 

She looked back to where Gibbs stood, and then focused about ten feet behind him, to where the pretty LEO stood talking into her cell phone. Ziva’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Or were you looking at Officer Blondie over there?”

 

Tony fought back an eye roll, before responding. “Now that you mention it, she does look pretty. . . _familiar_. Maybe we knocked uniform boots a few weeks ago. . .”

 

Ziva shot a nasty look at the woman for a moment before turning back to glare at him. She huffed and stomped off, and Tony raised his camera again, only to lower it immediately as he felt eyes on his back. He turned to look at Tim, who was frowning at Ziva’s retreating back.

 

“What’s her problem?”

 

“What’s _not_  her problem, Timmy? Our cranky probationary Mossad princess is always, well, cranky.”

 

Tim snorted, and looked down at the clipboard in his hands. “You ever gonna make a move?”

 

“You ever gonna catch Abby?” he retorted. Tim blushed, but narrowed his eyes at the same time.

 

“It was just a question, Tony, no need to get persnickety.”

 

“No need to get offended, McButthurt, but the day I stop running and let Ziva catch me is the day I can kiss my manhood goodbye. I think it’s safe to say she likes to Top. Makes my scrotum shrink up into my body at the thought.”

 

Tim barked out a laugh, shaking his head.

 

“Yo, Dinozzo! This isn’t The Breakfast Club! Get back to work and stop distracting the others!”

 

Tony turned to look at his boss, who was still crouched over the vic with Ducky. He shot him an incredulous look, and called out, “Boss, was that a movie reference?” Gibbs’ impatient expression turned to one of brief disgust, and Tony cringed away to finish photographing the scene, concealing his hurt. He hated when Gibbs looked at him like that. He knew the man was more disgusted with his clowning around than him as a person, but he wanted Gibbs to look at him with completely different expressions. Lust, maybe? Hell, he’d even take mild affection.

 

Gibbs came over to where the rest of them stood, as Ducky stayed behind with Palmer to bag up the body. “Wrap it up people, we’re heading back.”

 

They began packing their things. Ziva looked at her boss. “Open and slammed case, Gibbs?” (“Shut, Ziva, shut.”) “Whatever, Tony. Anyway, this is clearly a suicide, yes?”

 

“Rule 3,” Gibbs grunted. Ziva and Tim looked over at Tony for explanation.

 

“Don’t believe what you’re told. Double check,” he supplied. Gibbs nodded in agreement, and then took off for the van, pack slung over one shoulder. The other three rushed to catch up, yelling over each other for shotgun.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So Abbs, whadda ya think?” Tony leaned against a piece of equipment worth more than his yearly salary, munching on a granny smith apple. Abby Scuito nudged him with her elbow as she passed with a box of evidence, and he pushed himself up before snagging a lab stool and pulling it through his legs to sit on. Abby shot him an amused grin; sometimes she forgot how easy he made casual movement look graceful.

 

“I think, Tony, that this is a classic suicide. I mean, Ducky found GPD on his hands and the cuff of his shirt. His prints are on the gun, and the bullet. The handwriting in the suicide note checks out with the samples of his writing we pulled from his application for commission. Poor kid--he seemed really angry. And sad.” She gave Tony a knowing look, which he returned with a typical Dinozzo grin and waggle of the eyebrows.

  
“Can I take a look at the suicide note?” He asked between bites.

 

“Sure thing,” she said distractedly, studying a readout related to a different team’s case in the mass spectrometer. “Sign the clipboard.” Tony pulled on some gloves, then signed the chain of evidence form before picking up the note. He began to read.

 

_\--I was never cut out for this life. I only joined because dad wanted it. I left with a college education and hopes of becoming a successful songwriter. I came back a killer. But I’m not going to go back there to murder more civilians. (Obviously. Because if you’re reading this, I am dead.) To my mother. . .well, try to put the bottle down long enough to cry. Just know that I was trapped in a prison of my own making, and yours. I felt the walls closing in on me every day, crushed by the weight of what I had done and what was still yet to be done.--_

 

At this, Tony stopped reading, feeling a chill creep up the back of his neck. He shivered, mind 14 miles and south, to where his apartment sat, littered with years of prison walls. Boy, didn’t this feel familiar. He began reading again.

 

_\--To my father: well, fuck you. I mean that, too. If that hurts, and is insensitive and tacky, well. What do I care? I’m dead. Ha ha. You always wanted the perfect son--the one you could show off to your war buddies, mold in your own image, and use to fix the problems of your own life. Well, have fun showing me off at my funeral, because I’ve written my will and I’ve asked for an open casket funeral. No makeup._

 

_Oh, and to my roommate, Jeff. Sorry. I know it was my turn to cook. I’ve left some cash on the pass-through with the number for Dominoes. Go to town, eat pizza, and have a shot of Jack for me. Thanks._

 

Tony put the note down, numbed. He felt cold on the inside. The flippant way that this boy talked about ending his life was haunting.  He took a deep breath, and tried submerging his mind in that of the young man. Gibbs had always told him he had a talent for it.

 

_I’m young, I’m jaded; I’ve seen way too much in my life. I wanted to do something creative and peaceful with my time here, but my Marine dad pushed me into a profession I hated. I shot and killed people of whose innocence I was unsure. I’m scared and alone but I’m still wearing a mask and I’ll go to my grave with it, so I write the most in your face suicide note I can in this state of mind, and then I. . ._

 

Tony could picture it. He could definitely relate to how the kid felt, though not to his unique life experiences. He felt another shiver, and a pang of loss, and put the note back in the box. “Sign.” He handed the clipboard over to Abby, who signed it before giving him a long appraising look.

 

“You okay there, Tony? You’re a little pale.” Tony shook his head.

 

“Yeah, Abbs, I’m fine. Just, worn out I guess.”

 

“Go home. It’s--” she checked her watch, “Six after six on a Friday, and if I’m not mistaken, Bossman has already dismissed the rest of your team.”

She sat in her rolling lap chair, and pushed herself across the room to her monitors, flicking the mouse a bit before pulling up the live feed of the bull pen. Gibbs still sat at his desk, but he was alone in the room, and Tony took a moment to admire the concentration on his face in the grainy digital image before he noticed something.

 

“Uh, Abbs. You’re zoomed up on Tim’s desk. Anything you wanna tell your old friend Tony, now?”

 

She rolled her eyes and hit the scroll ball, zooming back out. “Hush, you.” Tony chuckled before pulling out his cell phone to check the messages and his time.

 

“Yeah, I guess I’ll get a little more paper work done before heading out.” He left out the part about loathing to return to his apartment. “I’ll see you Monday,” he promised, as he tossed the apple core into a trash can.

 

“Okay, Tony. Don’t work too hard. Hot dates this weekend?”

 

“You know it,” he exclaimed, mentally cringing. He began walking backwards towards the door of her lab, gesturing wildly with his hands. “You should see her, Abbs, gonzangazongas out to here and a head of hair so thick Appalachian climbers could get lost!” He walked out of her lab, watching her grin back at him with a glint in her eyes. Once the pneumatic doors closed in front of him, he wheeled about face, took a deep breath, and headed to the elevator. Back in the bull pen, he headed to his desk, more crashing than sitting into his chair, and spun around once before his hands hit the keyboard.

  
Gibbs looked up once, briefly, shooting the younger agent a look of pure fondness, which went unnoticed because Tony had already pulled up today’s report and begun typing away.


	3. You're Wearing Thin

_I try out a smile and I aim it at you_

_You must have missed it, you always do._

 

“Go home, Dinozzo.” Tony hid a smile from behind his monitor. He tried to make a practice of staying late enough to get snapped at by Gibbs at least twice a week, three times if he could do it without arousing suspicion. His job was the most important thing in his life, and he wanted his boss to know that. _Plus, the view’s not bad from where I’m sitting._  The smugness drained away as he thought about what he had to go home to. _Also, there’s that._  He sighed, and began packing up.

 

Gibbs stopped by his desk, pack slung casually over a shoulder. He looked uncharacteristically hesitant for a split second before asking, “Date this weekend?” Tony shook his head, not bothering to put on airs. Gibbs nodded. He paused for a minute more, contemplating something before dismissing it and walking off to the elevator. “Have a good one.”

 

“You too, boss.” Tony was pleased to hear himself keep the wistfulness from his voice. He waited for the elevator doors to open and close, and reminded to himself that chasing after his boss and begging to be taken home would only make him look like a fool. He turned off his monitor and headed for the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pulling up to his apartment complex twenty minutes later, Tony was irritated to see a vehicle he didn’t recognize. Streetside parking was limited in Dupont Circle, and while it was a long walk to his unit due to the unique layout of the loft spaces, it wasn’t a _big_  complex, so he was sure no one had moved in recently. He thought about saying something to the folks in his building about letting guests take up resident parking on Friday nights, but immediately dismissed it. The last thing he wanted was attention from his already suspicious neighbors.

 

Tony unloaded the car with the latest binders he had to review, making a mental note to clear a space out on the bed, and headed up to his unit. After a climb up several flights of stairs, he was surprised to see someone at the end of his hallway, knocking on his apartment door. The man was a short, skinny, squirrely little whip with a mess of brown hair that desperately needed gel, Tony noticed absently.

 

 _Shit. Shit. Should I just turn around and pretend I’m looking for a friend’s place?_  It was too late for that, however. The man had caught sight of him, and turned, walking towards him. He was wearing street clothes, but years as an investigator told Tony that this man was law enforcement. Tony felt a wave of dread wash over him. He wished he hadn’t ignored the forms posted on his door; he wished he owned his own place; he wished he was anyone but himself right now.

 

“Hello there. Is this your apartment?” The man crossed the last few steps to reach him, holding out a hand. Tony grudging shifted the things in his arm so that he could shake it. “Charles Klopper. I’m a fire marshal for Dupont Circle. Do you live in unit 24?”

 

“Yes,” Tony ground out between his teeth. “Did you need something?”

 

“Well, yeah, buddy, I mean, I think we both know what. My office has left several notices on your door?” Charles wrinkled his brows together, and Tony wanted to punch him in the face.

 

“Is that a question or a statement? Anyway, no idea what you’re talking about, ‘buddy’. I mean. I sublet this place, and I’m pretty busy with work and all and I--”

 

“Really,” Charles McDouche (as Tony now called him) interrupted, “because some of the other tenets have complained about a fire hazard, and we have photos of you coming and going from the apartment at regular work hours. Well, regularish. What do you do, exactly, Mr. . .”

 

“Dinozzo. NCIS Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo. I catch bad guys,” he snarked, pulling out his badge, then flipping the leather folder to display his ID card. The marshal stretched out a hand, and Tony reluctantly offered it over. Klopper took it with a look of skepticism, and looked at the badge for a minute before pulling the ID out of the case, studying it for a long moment. He handed them both back to Tony, doubt still evident in his face.

 

“Where’d you buy one of those, now?”

 

Tony saw red at the question. How _dare_  he?! “Do your fucking research,” he snarled, “I don’t know where you get the balls, mister, but maybe you should get a real job, and stop harassing law abiding citi--”

 

“Law abiding,” he interrupted, “really? Okay then. Let’s take a look at your place, shall we? _Very Special Agent?_ ” And he turned, hustling down the hallway again to stand in front of Tony’s door.  Tony rushed to follow him, pushing him aside bodily to block his path to the front door.

 

“Look, you don’t have to do that, okay? It’s a little messy, but I’ll deal with it.”

 

“Okay. I’m going wait here until you open your door though.”

 

Tony seethed. “I’ll have you arrested,” he threatened.

 

The marshal scoffed. “For what?” Tony wracked his brain, thinking.

 

“Harassment of a federal official,” he announced, decidedly. Klopper rolled his eyes.

 

“Right then. Get on with it. Arrest away. No? Okay. Crack open your place, then. If the accusations are unfounded it should be easy to prove. So let’s see it, big guy.”

 

Tony threw on a mask of dismissal, before turning to the door. He gulped discreetly and reached to unlock his front door. He stopped, key mid-turn. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t He began to panic. “Is that my cell phone ringing?”

 

“Nooooo, I don’t think so,” the marshal replied. Tony shook his head.

 

“No, no I’m sure of it. Probably the boss. Big case. You know how it is. I, uh, gotta go. Criminals to apprehend.” He pushed past the other man and headed down the hallway in the opposite direction.

 

Kopper called after him. “Hey. Hey!” Tony wheeled around, still walking backwards. “Look man. You gotta know, that place is a fire hazard. It puts you and your neighbors at risk.  You seem like a good guy, I know you wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt because of it. You really need to get help, man! It can’t be fun, living in a prison like that, right?”

 

“You think I don’t know that,” Tony retorted before headslapping himself mentally. He wheeled around and marched away without a look back. The officer stood standing, shaking his head in dismay. He called out:

 

“You know it’s not a crime to fill your apartment with crap, but we’re going to have to flag it as a death trap to the Fire Department! If something happens, they won’t take lifesaving action!”

 

Tony walked faster.

 

The frustrated agent checked into a hotel thirty minutes later, cursing himself for not grabbing a movie and his trusty Colt. He bought a flick off paperview anyway and sunk into a depression, vowing to wait out the weekend there in that Holiday Inn, and trying not to think too hard about steel blue eyes and hoarder’s piles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ten minutes away, Leeroy Jethro Gibbs picked up his phone, dialing. He put it back down again, and turned his attention back to the piece of wood in front of him. For once, though, his hands didn’t itch to carve or sand. He picked the phone back up, dialing Dinozzo’s number from memory. He paused before hitting send, and sighed to himself before putting his phone back down again. He had no idea what he hoped to accomplish by calling the other agent. He just knew he wanted the younger man’s company.

  
He tried a third time to call, before giving up and throwing the phone onto the tool bench. Tony was probably getting drunk at a bar with a pretty young thing anyway.


	4. Stop Pretending

Monday rolled in too fast. Tony felt incredibly rested from his stay at the hotel, deciding that a full night’s sleep in a full-sized bed without nightmares of being crushed by stacks of case files was preferable to the alternative. Gibbs, however, was grouchy, wishing he had just given in to Friday night’s urge to call Tony over for a chat and a beer. Both men were early to their desks Monday morning; the former, from having a weekend’s solid rest, and the latter from being unable to find peace all weekend until he saw his senior agent.

 

Tony ignored Gibbs (barely) but he could feel the man burning holes in his forehead anyway. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve it--maybe errors on his last crime scene report?--but he tried not to take too much perverse pleasure in the fact that Gibbs couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off him. He thought about cracking a joke, maybe a  _Like what you see?_ , or a _You’re not limited to staring, you can touch, too,_  but he dismissed the idea. It was too early for a head slap.

 

Gibbs stared at Tony, pensive. He’d been through this feeling before, like an itch between his shoulder blades, but before now, not as intensely as he’d felt since his love-at-third-sight with Shannon at the train station that. He remembered her sunlit smile, and the way she’d swiveled around on that public bench, waiting for the same train, talking about _not dating lumberjacks_. God, he’d fallen so hard for her that day.

 

Which is why he was slightly alarmed to feel the same level of creeping itch when he looked at Dinozzo. _Dinozzo, of all people._  Although, taking a moment to be honest with himself, that itch and been growing for some time now. But really, he’d had three inadequate substitutes since Shannon had died. Hadn’t he felt the same for them at some point or another? He squinted into nothing, up and to the left, channelling his emotions. He remembered lust. And regret. He tried compare it to the sheer awe and admiration he’d felt for Shannon, and found the emotions lacking. Well, that was a first. Until recently, Gibbs could have sworn that he’d tried as hard with his last three as he had with his first. But, maybe not. Most of them had ended badly. And he never felt the same exhilaration for them as he did with the first.

 

But Tony. . .God, Tony. Tony, who’d lasted longer than the last two marriages combined. Tony, who was so similar to Shannon in personality. Both open, carefree, easy to smile and joke, never at a loss for words, and great with people. Gibbs didn’t want to consider the fact that he was falling for his senior agent; didn’t want to contemplate the fact that he probably already had. He’d never been homophobic to speak, but had also never thought about men like that before.

 

Still Gibbs had decided years back, when he first enlisted and found himself more attracted to people than “parts”, that the genitalia shouldn’t matter so much as the compatibility. Not that any of it mattered in this case. The fact that Tony was a _man_  that he loved mattered a lot less than the fact that Tony was straight, was his direct subordinate, was a playboy who couldn’t commit, was decades younger than him. He put it out of mind. There was a job to focus on; matters of the heart could wait.

 

He returned to his report, trying too hard not to stare at his subordinate. He usually spent the first thirty minutes of his shift answering emails and reading his RSS feeds, though woe to the person to figure that out or call him on it. It was worthwhile to take time to get into the right head space for catching criminals. Today he struggled to do so; the years of loneliness and longing weighed too deeply in his bones.

 

Jethro shook it off, though, and refocused on the task at hand. By 6:05 he was ready, and thankful it’d only taken a little more than an hour to get into the swing of things. By 6:15 the rest of the team had arrived, distracting him from Tony’s appealing visage, and he was better able to concentrate over the sound of the team pranking each other about underwear or some other ridiculous thing for another hour and a half before the call came down from MTAC.

 

He snapped his phone shut and stood up. “Grab your gear, people. We’vegot bodies.” His team leaped into action and he felt a curl of satisfaction that he’d trained them to be so responsive. Everyone was heading to the elevators and calling shotgun before he even had to glare, and he followed his team to the van, reviewing the details that Director Vance’s assistant was texting him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They arrived about an hour out of DC. A Marine base family had literally roasted to death, and while it wasn’t Tony’s first burn vic case, he was still a little repulsed by the fact that burned human flesh smelled like chicken. He took a deep breath of clean air, muttered a prayer, and headed in head first.

 

Behind him, Gibbs did likewise. He ignored Ziva, scoffing at Tony’s precautions and Tim’s gagging, and marched in after his senior field agent. Most of the interior was burnt out completely, but Tony could still see traces of picture frames on the wall, and family room furniture, bits of technology and heirlooms alike. Three crisp shells lay sprawled out on the couch, arms thrown up, above their heads. His stomach rebelled, and he fought the urge to turn around and gag. It was one thing to see a parody of it on TV or in movies* and another to actually witness it. And the fact that he’d dealt with this before didn’t leave him completely unaffected. He walked towards the couch in the path the LEO had cleared, camera held out in front of him like in a subconscious effort to ward off the bad mojo Tony felt. “Looks like two adults and a child. This house was owned by Jenna and Chris Marcetti. Both military. Chris was Marines, enlisted, and,”

 

“Jenna was a Petty Officer,” Gibbs interrupted, already nodding. “And they had a daughter. Eight years old.”

 

“Yes.”  

 

“Get Ducky in here, have him and Palmer take a look at the bodies. Ziva!” The aforementioned agent approached with a nod, stopping in front of Gibbs and folding her arms behind her back.

 

“DC’s arson squad has just arrived. They are unloading their equipment as we speak.” Gibbs nodded before visually dismissing her, attention already focused upon unknown variables. The men and women of the arson squad filed in and began taking samples, using their equipment to take readings of the room. Tony stood watching, making mental notes with his eyes about their practices. He felt a tap on his arm.

 

“Well, hello, there.” Tony turned, and to his disgust, there stood Charles Klopper. The squirrley man squinted up athim, and Tony took a step back, dislike displayed clearly in every line of his form.

 

“What? Did you need something,” he asked with a sneer. The little man looked put off by Tony’s abruptness for a moment before his eyes widened in surprise.

 

“So you really are an NCIS agent,” he murmured.

 

“Yeah, Knobster. I’m not a liar. I make a living catching the bad guys. The _real_  bad guys. You know how it is. Oh wait. You don’t. You harass people for a living.”

 

Klopper took offense to this, and drew himself up to full height. “Actually, Agent Dinozzo, what I do is very important, and just as much a service to the public as what you do. No, I may not go on shoot-outs or chase baddies, but I ensure that the rest of you folks don’t die painful deaths like the ones these good folks suffered because fire safety laws were neglected.”

 

Tony deflated a bit at this, knowing it to be true. He steeled himself back up however, when he remembered that this man would gladly see him living on the street. “Is this what you think happened here?”

 

Klopper shook his  head. “No, no. This looks like arson, plain and true.”

 

Tony gnawed on his lip a bit before asking,“What are you doing here, anyway? It’s not exactly your regular scene.”

 

The fire marshal nodded in agreement. “I can’t argue with that. I came along with my protege. He was called into active duty due to his experience with some of the newer equipment. Fresh out of the academy, you know, so he’s trained up. This isn’t my typical jurisdiction. But we’re not arguing about that, are we? You may have been telling the truth about your prestigious title and your beneficial profession, but it doesn’t negate the fact that you need to seek help.”

 

Tony gave him an intentionally blank look, wishing he was anywhere but here. “What’s negate mean,” he quipped in a dry tone of voice. With half a mind he wondered if the day could get any worse, and as if by thought, Gibbs chose that exact moment to walk over and stick his handsome nose in.

 

“What do we have, Dinozzo?”

 

“Fire Marshal Klopper was just telling me about the crime scene.” Gibbs looked between the two suspiciously. Klopper looked at Gibbs, then at the moderately panicked look in Tony’s eyes, then back at Gibbs. He must have seen something he liked, because all he said was, “Agent Dinozzo is right. I was just about to relay my opinions about the placement of the bodies. They didn’t flee. I find that odd.”

 

And he nodded his head in the direction of the three crispy corpses. He looked back at Gibbs, and then at Tony, who was discreetly looking at his boss like the man was a tall drink of water in the middle of a desert. Something clicked inside him, and he decided for the third time in his professional career to meddle in others’ personal lives. He gave Gibbs a one eyed stare, and warned, “I might want to consider heading over to your Agent Dinozzo’s place, if I were you. I get the feeling that you might find something requiring your assistance.

  
Tony glared plague-infected daggers at the smaller man, but the marshal didn’t flinch. He nodded to the two agents before heading off in the other direction, Tony sent up a silent prayer that Gibbs wouldn’t read too much into Charles Klopper’s words, and Gibbs silently vowed to take the marshal up on his suggestion.


	5. It's a Shame You Don't Know What You're Running From

Abby confirmed the DC arson department’s reports, and from then on it was just a matter of whom, and why. Bank statements, and then phone records were analyzed. Gibbs had a bad feeling in his gut, and so sent his agents chasing leads.

Tony always felt a little guilty investigating the victims themselves, but by now knew better than to doubt his boss’s intuition. After all, it bordered on premonition at times, and though Tony had the occasional (okay, more than occasional) insight of his own, his powers of investigation were yet rival to Gibbs. His boss wanted him to focus on the wife--something was “hinky” to steal a phrase from Abby--and it just didn't sit right.

A week passed, with the team gathering the necessary evidence. It silently tore Gibbs up when he was proved right. Phone records showed calls made by Petty Officer Marcetti over the last few months to multiple payday loan companies. Financial records showed that the family had been in dire straights with money, beyond broke, living from paycheck to paycheck and off whatever loans or gifts of cash they could manage to obtain. Though no note was left, it seemed that the wife had finally been pushed too far, and had made purchases the week before to start a powerful and unstoppable house fire.

Tony sat with Gibbs in Abby’s lab as she hammered the final nail on the coffin. “It appears that the husband and daughter were tranq’d, Gibbs. Ketamine. The street kind, since none of them were equestrians. Husband and daughter were drugged before the fire started. From these levels, they were probably conscious but unable to prevent what was happening. There was one last adrenalin push, probably around the time they themselves began to burn, which explains the position the bodies were found in. The Petty Officer, however, was not tranquilized. She was most likely completely conscious.” 

“And willing,” Gibbs grunted. He was expressionless, but Tony knew him well enough to assume that the man was raging internally, and battling his own demons from the past. He stood up, stretching, and gave Abby a quick peck on the cheek, handing her a Caf-Pow he’d been holding hostage for the duration of her sitrep. “Good work, Abbs. Dinozzo, find the dealer. Not now. Tomorrow.” He turned to go.

“Gibbs!” She flailed a bit in place and he turned around, eyebrows lifted. Gibbs turned back around. Abby visibly quaked under his gaze, but steeled herself, nevertheless. “Don’t take this case personally, okay? Things happen and people are assholes. It’s not the same as what happened to you. You know, because you weren't at fault. Even when you were--”

Gibbs grunted, cutting her off with a wave of his hand, before turning to leave the lab. Abby turned sad puppydog eyes onto Tony, who still sat on his stool. “Take care of him, Tony,” she pleaded. “You know how he gets after cases like this. Don’t let him dwell too much.”

Tony nodded, “Yeah, I know. He starts pulling up memories and then hides the feelings they stir up with grumpiness.”

“Visit him tonight!” She exclaimed.

“You visit him!”

“No you, Tony!”

“No, you, Abby! He likes you best!”

“Duh. But he needs you more right now!”

“Gibbs doesn't need anybody, Abby,”

“Tony!” She stood with her hands on her hips, frowning at him. “He needs his second in command. You know him best--go to him tonight. Promise me!”

Tony sighed. “Okay. I’ll try, Abby, I mean, I guess. He may kick me right back out on my ass, though.”

Abby walked up to him, putting both hands on either side of his face. “He won’t kick you out,” she assured, shaking his head back and forth gently to emphasis each word. 

Tony gave her a 100 watt smile. “I promise. But if this is gonna happen, I need to get back to my desk before I piss him off more by fooling around. And, I need to get my reports done. Which means, I need your lab results. So...” and he trailed off, hoping she’d pick up the thread.

“I’ll send them down with a runner in the next 10,” she said undeterred. “Bring food. Or alcohol. Or hugs!” 

Tony rolled his eyes with a grin as he turned for the elevator. 

Abby grinned at his back, fingers crossed on both hands.


	6. Sing Me to Sleep

Tony kept his word to Abby. After leaving the office, he stopped off at the Spec’s near his boss’s house, and picked up a bottle of Bourbon. He wasn’t crazy for the stuff, but he also needed some security that Gibbs wouldn’t throw him out on the street for arriving uninvited.

 

After paying for his purchase, he continued on to Gibbs’ house. As he drove, he thought about his boss. In his mind’s eye, he could see Gibb’s face clearly--the strong blue gaze, the little crinkles around his eyes, the slight clef to his chin. He focused on that, on all the things he liked about his boss, and tried not to focus on the many ways that this could go badly.

 

He sighed as he pulled into the driveway, waiting for a bit before turning the engine off. He didn’t knock; he never did, and Gibbs never scolded him for it, so he figured it was okay. The front door was unlocked, as always. He made his way to the basement, making as much noise as possible in case Gibbs hadn’t secured his weapon yet. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he paused, surprised to find Gibbs not working on his latest project, but rather staring through it.

 

“What’s it going to be?”

 

Gibbs sighed, not looking up. “New mantelpiece.”

 

“It’s nice,” Tony offered, holding out the bottle like a peace offering. Gibbs pointed to where he kept the mason jars. Tony nodded in assent, making his way over to the tool bench. He poured two glasses, three fingers each, and handed one to his boss. Gibbs took it wordlessly but gave him an inquisitive look.  “Thought you might like some company tonight,” he explained, and Gibbs grunted, nodding. He took a seat next to him at his work table.

 

“She was Kelly’s age.”

 

“Yeah, boss, I know.”

 

“Never get why people willingly throw away their families.”

 

Tony nodded. “It seems pretty crazy to me. It was a permanent solution to a temporary problem. And she certainly didn’t offer her husband or daughter any other choice. Seems incredibly selfish to me.”

 

Gibbs didn’t speak for a while, before asking, “You even consider starting one? A family, I mean.” Tony just laughed at that, shaking his head with a rueful grin.

 

“I think that ship’s well and sailed, boss. I mean, I’m a little old for it. I thought about it briefly on a shallow level with EJ, but after she sold military secrets and betrayed us, well. . .you know the rest.”

 

“She used you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I hate her for it.” He made eye contact with Tony, who could see that his boss was already flush and glassy-eyed with drunk. He’d obviously been a few cups deep before Tony had gotten there. “She hurt you, Tony. Worse than Jeanne, in some ways, I think.”

 

Again Tony nodded. “Yes, she did. But I got over it. I always do. People have a habit of leaving around me.”

 

“Never understood why.”

 

“Why what, boss?” Tony inquired, qurstion in his eyes. Gibbs was being uncharacteristically chatty, for him, and Tony wanted to keep him talking.

 

“Dunno. You act like the love ‘em and leave ‘em type on the outside. Never got a sense that’s who you really are however. Do you leave ‘em before they have a chance to leave you?”

 

“Um. I. Do I have to answer that? Didn’t know I’d be getting the interrogation room treatment, boss.” He chuckled nervously. Gibbs waved him off with a gentle hand, and actually looked abashed for a moment.

 

“Eh. Sorry, Tony. I’ve had a few. You don’t have to answer that, of course not. To hell with them, though--your exs and mine. _To hell with psychopathic women that burn their homes to the ground and take their families with them._  was the unspoken toast. Tony raised his glass in mock jest, smiling softly. “I’m probably going to regret saying this tomorrow. . . it drove me crazy to see you with her.”

 

Tony leaned back, shocked for a moment, before masking his surprise. “Because it was a distraction to my work?” Gibbs looked at him again, looked _through_  him.

 

“Something like that,” he said with a chuckle, but Tony could read the passion in his eyes, alongside restrained restraint, and something else he couldn’t identify. A funny feeling came over him at that moment, and impulsively, he leaned forward on his stool, and eyes dropping closed, planted the sweetest kiss he could give on his boss’s lips. It was soft, and tender, mouth almost closed, and he held it for a few seconds before drawing back. Tony shook his head, clearing it, and looked away, not wanting to see whatever Gibbs’ expression held.

 

“Sorry, I just. Had to know. Had to try, just once.” He risked a glance up, expecting a scandalized expression on the older agent’s face. Instead, Gibbs looked half-dazed, eyes lidded, lips still slightly puckered. He too, shook himself out of his stupor, before granting Tony one of his rare, full-bodied smiles. He leaned forward again, and so did Tony.

 

Their lips met again, this time with purpose. Gibbs nibbled softly at Tony’s bottom lip before running a tongue over the other man’s well-define cupid’s bow. Tony sighed into the kiss, granting Gibbs full access to his mouth. Tongues darted in, a quick exploration and greeting all at once, before becoming more familiar. They found a rhythm, give and take, breathing into each other’s mouths. Gibbs thought Tony tasted sweet, but not in a ripe way, and Tony thought Gibbs tasted _perfect_.

 

They kissed on, their lips the only point of contact of their two bodies. In a brief flash, Tony could see himself doing this every night, and making a life like this, a normal one like he’d craved for decades. Sweet morning kisses over breakfast and cuddling on the couch. All of it was overwhelming enough to snap him out of the moment, and he pulled back with a heavy heart. “It’d never work,” he murmured, barely audible.  _Not with my home life what it is._

 

Gibbs nodded, sadly. “I understand, Tony.”

 

“I could see myself with you,” he blurted out even as he blushed at the confession. “For years, even.”

 

“I know, Tony.”

 

“I, I need to go. Goodnight.” He began to retreat to the stairs before he did something else stupid and life-changing.

 

“Tony,” Gibbs called out. The agent risked a glance backwards. Gibbs was holding his bottle of Bourbon aloft, shaking it slightly. “Your bottle.”

 

“Thanks, he said, taking the brown nectar and swearing to himself to drink the whole thing when he got home. Tony left, feeling like he was leaving his heart behind in the basement that smelled of sawdust and held the frame of one handsome older man that was forever beyond Tony’s reach. He drove home on auto-pilot, and forced himself inside his apartment, his prison.

  
He loathed himself and his living space. it kept him lonely; it kept him isolated from the things he really wanted. This stuff, these piles of objects were gilded bars on his magpie’s cage. His inability to get rid of it all, or burn it all to the ground now cost him much more than he could have imagined. As he crawled into bed, bottle in hand to drink himself to blackout, he played with his revolver. By the end of the night, he’d loaded a bullet in the chamber.


	7. Your Biggest Mistake

Tony was jolted from sleep by a pounding on his door. A bolt of panic ripped through his body, as he lay there silently, praying that whomever it was would just go away.

 

More pounding. _So much for taking a hint,_  he thought. It couldn’t be the Fire Marshal, because he didn’t work this late. Maybe it was one of the awful man’s peons.

 

“I know you’re in there, Dinozzo! Your car’s out front.” Gibbs. Jesus Christ. His boss had never made a trip to his apartment before. Tony had been sure that the man didn’t even know where he lived, but then, this was Gibbs they were talking about.

 

He climbed off the bed and tried to make his way around the six foot stacks of clothes and knickknacks and papers and everything else he couldn’t bring himself to throw out, as quickly and efficiently as he could. In his haste to get to the door, he knocked a few piles loose, feeling uncomfortable that things were now out of place. He undid the locks and stepped out into the hallway, only opening the door enough to squeeze through and shutting it immediately behind him.

 

“Did you need something boss? It’s, uh,” but not knowing the time, he settled with, “it’s very late.”

 

Gibbs had a hard glint in his eyes, but his tell--a twitch in his right cheek, under the eye--gave him away as slightly nervous. In the back of his mind, Tony wondered if they had a case.

 

“Why?” Gibbs finally asked, and then furrowed his brows, as if that wasn’t what he meant to say.

 

“Why what, boss? Why is it late? You see, the sun comes up, the sun goes down. But that’s actually just an illusion because what’s really happening is that our planet is mov--” Gibbs waved a hand, cutting him off.

 

“Not what I meant. I,” and he paused for deep breath, steeling himself. “Was thinking about what you said last week. About how it couldn’t work between us.”

 

“Okay.”

 

There was a long pause between them as Gibbs just stared at Tony. He began to grow uncomfortable, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. “And I guess you have more thoughts to offer on the subject?”

 

His boss shook his head. “Wanted to know why. ” This time it was Gibbs who looked uncomfortable. “Know I said I’d respect your decision. But, I have to know. ‘S driving me a little crazy, Tony.”

 

“Why? I mean. . .you care? About the reasons? I mean obviously you care because you wouldn’t be here asking if you didn’t, but I don’t see why the reasons matter, and oh hell, I’m babbling. Shutting up boss.”

 

“Didn’t ask you to shut up, Dinozzo,” Gibbs reminded, toeing the dirty carpet of the hallway. “I asked you to talk.”

 

Tony rolled his eyes. “Right, because you offer so much of it in return. Fine. Rule 12,” he quoted.

 

Gibbs nodded, looking down. “That’s a good reason.” He looked back up. “I’m thinking about giving you the team. Not for. . .not because of this, but because I’m creeping up to mandatory field retirement anyway, and it’s time for you to have your own team.”

 

Gibbs could see the shock on Tony’s face before the typical Dinozzo mask slammed into place. “Hopefully you’ll leave us with more than a ‘you’ll do’ this time, boss.”

 

“I don’t plan on leaving at all, Dinozzo,” he ground out, letting his frustration cover up the guilt he felt hearing those words. “Was going to stay and consult. If, if I did. . .well, we wouldn’t be coworkers then.”

 

They stared at each other for a few tense seconds, before Tony sighed and dropped his gaze. “It still wouldn’t work. You have no idea how sorry I am about that.”

 

“Why not, Tony, I’m willing to try. Is it my age? Or that I’m your boss? I know it’s not a commitment issue--you said so yourself.”

 

Tony shook his head, frantically. “Of course it’s not your age. You’re in fantastic shape.”

 

“I’m old enough to be your father.”

 

“It’s not that. I’m straight.”

 

“Yes. But you’re also kinky, Dinozzo. I think you could learn. . .”

 

“You’re straight, Gibbs,” he reminded him.

 

“That’s never mattered to me, Tony. It’s more about the person, not the gender, for me. Besides,” and he stepped in, crowding Tony, who stepped back until the door was pressed to his back. “Are you saying that you’re not affected by me,” another step, and they were almost chest to chest, “being this close to you? Because I know I’m affected,” he breathed.

 

Tony swallowed, choking a little. “No, definitely affected Gibbs.” He could smell his boss’s scent now, aftershave, sawdust and a hint of Bourbon and musk. It was making his head spin. “But you’re the exception to the rule. The only exception.”

 

“Then let me be your exception, Tony. Been waiting, hoping, for nearly ten years, now.” He tilted his head up, hoping Tony would get the hint and kiss him again. When the younger man didn’t budge, he reached out and tugged his head down so that he could nibble on the other agent’s mouth. It wore away the last of Tony’s resolve, and he opened his mouth to Gibbs, moaning faintly at the hint of tongue. He deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around Gibbs’ back and tugging them fully flush together. Gibbs tilted his head for better access.

 

A sudden crash from inside the apartment jolted both of them out of the kiss. Jethro stepped out of Tony’s arms, stiff with anger, and the younger man bit back a moan at the loss. His boss sputtered, looking at him with disbelief.

 

“Someone’s in there. You have a girl in there with you, Dinozzo! Christ!”

 

Tony shook his head frantically, looking panicked. “No! No, boss, I swear! No,”

 

“And you just stood there and let me kiss you! Is this some kind of joke? Is she standing behind the door, watching you make a fool of me?”

 

“No! No, boss, I swear, there’s no one there, just, come here, come here.” Tony held his arms out again, but Gibbs ignored them, instead reaching around to open the door. He frowned when it only opened a couple of feet.

 

“No! Boss, don’t do that, I can’t let you go in there!” He tried to push at Gibbs, to make him step back, but shoving the former Marine was like shoving stone. Gibbs brushed Tony aside and leaned his full weight on the door, sticking his head in. It was dark, but he could see the piles and piles of things well enough.

 

“Christ, Dinozzo, what happened to your apartment?! Is this some prank gone wrong? Who filled your place with crap?” he asked, much more gently this time.

 

“It’s not crap!” he snapped back, before cringing. _Put the other foot in it, Tony._  He looked down at Gibbs, wishing he could melt down into the floor. Gibb’s eyes grew very round at that statement, understanding and incredulity naked on his face. “It’s my stuff, Gibbs.”

 

“Oh my god, Tony. You’re--”

 

Tony put both his hands over Gibbs’ mouth to stem the flow of words. He looked incredibly sad, and for once, didn’t bother to hide it. “I need to get some sleep,” he said softly. “And so do you. Goodnight.”

 

Gibbs shook his hands off. “Tony, we need to talk about this!”

 

“I will see you in the morning at work.”

 

“Tony,” he warned.

 

“Goodnight.” And before Gibbs could stop him he’d stepped back into the apartment and slammed the door shut. Gibbs heard the sound of locks being drawn, and knew he wasn’t going to get anything more out of the man tonight. He sighed and began the long trek back to his car.

  
In the darkness, on his tiny sliver of uncovered mattress, Tony spun the barrel of his revolver endlessly with his thumb.


End file.
